His long trench hung on the coat rack, so much red leather like so much spilled blood. You didn’t see your husband’s body, but the housekeeper had to burn the dining room carpet out back.
“Now… what’s a pretty lil’ thing like you doin’ on this side of the city?” the man behind the desk asked. “I want you to prove my husband was a bastard, and a wife beater, and a sunnovabitch, Mr. Presley. But what I want’s just coffee and cakes. What I need you to prove is that I didn’t bump ‘im off.”
those Roarin' vibes















